Raymond wondered
what it was all about; bought books to elucidate the matter; took
fire with indignation and resentment. Then came the Maine affair;
the suspense of seventy million people eager to avenge their dead;
the decision of the court of inquiry; the emergency vote; the
preparation for war. Raymond watched it all with a curious
detachment. He never realised that it could have anything
personally to do with him. The long days in the auditor's
department went on undisturbed for all that the country was arming
and the State governors were calling out their quotas of men. Two
of his associates quitted their desks and changed their black
coats for army blue. Raymond admired them; envied them; but it
never occurred to him to ask why they should go and he should
stay. It was natural for him to stay; it was inevitable; he was as
much a part of the office as the office floor.
One afternoon, going home on the Elevated, he overheard two men
talking.
"I don't know what we'll do," said one.
"Oh, there are lots of men," said the other.
"Men, yes--but no sailors," said the first.
"That's right," said the other.
"We are at our wits' end to man the new ships," said the first.
"What did you total up to-day?" said the other.
His companion shrugged his shoulders.
"Eighty applicants, and seven taken," he said.
"And those foreigners?"
"All but two!"
"There's danger in that kind of thing!"
"Yes, indeed, but what can you do?"
The words rang in Raymond's head.
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